Declaration Of Romantic Intent
by velja
Summary: John is sent one of those official notice papers, this one being a declaration of romantic intent. From Sherlock. Who filled it out in his own special way. Very special way. What's John to do about it?


**Declaration Of Romantic Intent**

_Inspired by and based on the wonderful 'Official Notice Document' **calli_thaala** created. You need to have a look at that first. Link is at my profile.  
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><p><em>(picture that document here)<em>

John stared in disbelief at the little piece of paper in his hands. Such a small thing, barely half a page, and yet…

John felt his world tilt and spin off its axis. It tumbled, went upside-down and he would have stumbled and landed flat on his arse if it hadn't been for the chair that conveniently cushioned his fall. Heart hammering in his chest, throat dry like sandpaper, John sat with his eyes glued to the paper sheet in his trembling hands.

That's how Sherlock found him minutes, hours, days later. John wasn't sure how long it had been. Sense of time had left him, just like any other sense.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Not even the shadow that fell over him when Sherlock bent over the back of John's chair to see what John was holding in his hands. The barely audible intake of breath that escaped Sherlock's lips didn't register on John's mind either. He didn't notice Sherlock's stiffened posture or his silent stride over the coffee table towards the couch.

John had no idea how long Sherlock sat there, elbows resting on his knees, hands held in typical prayer position with his index fingers grazing his lips. But John felt the stare out of light grey-blue eyes that betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

He felt it pierce him, felt it burn its way through his chest until he thought his insides were on fire. On the outside, as usual, he remained calm.

"This is a joke, right?" The words came out croaked, rasping. "It has to be."

"If you'd prefer it that way," Sherlock sounded bored. "Certainly."

"I mean, come on," John could feel choked laughter in his throat. "This is insane. Plotline of your fantasy: Daydreaming about bees? You can't be… no, it has to be a joke."

Sherlock's eyebrow rose up. "Of all the numerous pieces of vital information that document entails, that's the part you decide to take offence at? Interesting."

"I don't take offence at any of this."

Sherlock's eyes lit up but John wasn't finished yet. "Only… bees? Why bees?"

"For a number of reasons, John." Sherlock stood up and once again climbed over the coffee table as if he couldn't be bothered to walk around it. Like it was beneath him to have any object stop him in his stride. He walked up to John and for a second John thought Sherlock would simply step over him, too, on his way to wherever. But Sherlock veered to the left without missing a beat, rounded John's chair, and started pacing to the window and back.

"Bees are one of the most fascinating species to be found within the super family Apoidea, presently classified by the unranked taxon name Anthophila." Sherlock took a breath before he continued his lecture. "There are nearly 20,000 known species of bees in seven to nine recognized families, though many are yet not described and the actual number is probably higher. I think it would be interesting to…"

"Sherlock!" John's voice was sharp. "Shut up about the bloody bees and focus!"

"You asked, John." The risen eyebrow again. "I was merely trying to appease the obvious distress you're feeling regarding certain aspects of my declaration."

"Your declara… Sherlock, you didn't declare anything." John tried very had to keep his calm. His hand shook though, and the document made a whispering sound. He took a steadying breath. "You had this hidden in your desk drawer! If Mycroft hadn't sent it to me I'd have never known…"

"Ah, yes. Mycroft. Sticking his long nose into desk drawers he has no business with whatsoever." Sherlock let out a derisive snort. "If that's the best our government can do then I truly fear for our country, John."

"Don't try to change the subject, Sherlock. Why was this declaration, no… this, **whatever **it is, hidden in your desk?"

Sherlock, still pacing with his hands clasped behind his back, shot back: "Well, first of all, it **is** a declaration. Do try to pay attention, John. The document is titled 'Declaration of…' well, you **are **able to read, I suppose. So I think its location is rather irrelevant, don't you? It's a declaration no matter where it is. And, besides, where else was I supposed to hide it?"

"Why hide it at all?" John's voice rose. "Come to think of it, why fill it out in the first place? Sherlock, you're not serious, are you? You can't… no. I know you don't feel the same… Shit, I mean… This has got to be a cruel joke!"

"It is not, I assure you," Sherlock stopped pacing right in front of John and fixed him with an intense look. "Not a joke."

John felt heat creep up his cheeks. It couldn't be, could it? For months now he'd tried to squash his feelings, tried to be rational about what his heart wanted and his head knew would never happen. And now… this?

John knew he'd explode any second now. He had to avoid Sherlock's stare, he didn't trust himself to look into those eyes and not do something stupid. Like jumping up and tackling Sherlock to the ground, kissing him senseless.

Now there was an idea! But, no! First of all John needed clarity. His head, which he'd forced to rule over his heart for so long, wasn't to relinquish control that easily. So, instead of grabbing Sherlock and simply planting one on him John forced his gaze back to the document in his hand. He needed to make sure he'd not overlooked anything. Like some sort of fine print, marking it all as one of Sherlock's experiments.

John read the whole thing once again, top to bottom, left to right, and eventually his eyes settled on the title again.

'Declaration of Romantic Intent.' He couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. "Seriously, this has got to be the least romantic way of… you know, declaring any intent whatsoever, I think."

Sherlock shrugged. "I hope you weren't expecting any kind of supposedly romantic gesture, like flowers, chocolates or self-composed sonnets praising your fair hair, or whatever else boring, predictable motions the general public considers appropriate in a case like this."

"No, I wasn't expecting any… that is, I'd never thought, I mean…" John broke off, at a loss for words. Then he frowned, suddenly. "And what do you mean, a case like this? Is this to do with a case?"

"No," Sherlock's voice was quiet all of a sudden. "No case, John."

"Then what the bloody hell is going on? This isn't… you can't… you're not actually," John took a rather deep breath to steady his nerves before continuing: "Sherlock, what **is **this? What are you trying – very badly, I might add – to do here?"

"Well, I thought it rather obvious." Sherlock vaguely pointed at a specific section on the sheet in John's hand. "Although I have to agree with you. This document seems to fall short on several accounts. For example: The statement itself," he made a disappointed clacking noise. "It's boring, predictable, focuses on irrelevant matters like physical attributes. Seriously, _'Your … are like …!'_ It's ludicrous. What was I supposed to fill in there?"

John looked mildly offended and Sherlock, for once, surprised him by back-pedalling: "I'm not saying you don't have physical attributes that are… well, but… Come on, John. Do people actually care about these things?"

When John didn't answer Sherlock went on: "Anyway, overall, the choice of one's words seems quite limited by these pre-printed sections. Hinders what one's trying to express rather profoundly."

"Why use it then?" John couldn't think of anything else to say. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing did make any sense to him right now, least of all the possibility of Sherlock being actually serious about this. He couldn't be, could he?

"Sherlock?" John had realized Sherlock's lack of response and he looked up from the sheet to find Sherlock once again seated on the couch, looking down.

"Why use this, if it's so lacking?"

"Well, it's not all…" Sherlock waved his hand about carelessly. "There is this one section on the right that, although still lacking in some ways, makes it possible to state one's – for the lack of a more suitable term – hopes for the future simply by checking off boxes. It's efficient."

"Efficient." John tried not to gape open-mouthed.

"Yes."

John cleared his throat, eyes on the paper. "You're talking about the suggested activities?"

"Obviously."

"Obviously." Holy Mary, was he being serious? John scanned the checked boxes of activities. "Lacking in what ways?"

"Sorry, what?"

"You said this is still lacking in some ways. What ways? Seems to me the list about covers all I've ever… well, all there is to be."

Sherlock sent him a long look. John waited. And waited some more. Eventually he cleared his throat again and started reading out loud: "Conversing, flirting, ugh, kissing and… a-hem, other stuff. Cohabiting, well, we're doing that already, aren't we?"

"There's no box labelled 'other stuff', John," Sherlock interrupted.

"No, but… Well, you've read the list, you know what else it says."

"I do." A small smile grazed Sherlock's lips right before he launched into it: "You mentioned conversing, which we do frequently. Quite more frequently than I was used to, I admit, before we met. Then there's flirting, a concept with which I'm not overly familiar in person, at least not as the one doing it. But since I find myself rather constantly at the receiving end of other people's attempts to flirt with me I'm sure I know enough about the theory to put it into practice.

Dancing comes next on that list, though, as you've clearly noticed it's not checked off, it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that I'd prefer if we didn't partake in that activity. However, if this is something that is required of us in order to be allowed to perform the next activity, like it's the case in various competitions, computer games for example, where you need to complete one task before you are allowed to go to the next level and another task… well, if that is how this works as well, and here I'll be having to rely on your expertise since I've never done this thing before, then I'll be willing to dance with you in order to get us to the next level so to speak."

The moment Sherlock took a much-needed breath John had planned to throw a word in. Anything to stop this nonsense. But, truth to be told, John was far too fascinated by Sherlock's view on these kinds of things. He also somehow needed to hear more, couldn't get enough in fact. Sherlock on a roll like this was… breathtaking. And sexy as hell.

"The next suggested activity would be gazing, though what we're supposed to gaze at is not specified further. That is another point for why this document is vastly imperfect and in use of improvement. No detailed specification on the gazing had me pondering leaving that box clear for a while. I needed more data to pick the right option, the option you'd prefer. But then I realized, you do seem to like gazing into space a lot, and I have found myself growing rather fond of watching you do it, so I suppose that'll do. If that point on the list should cover something else, please do enlighten me and I'll make the valuable decision then.

Then there's the kissing. No need go into details on this, is there? You've done it, I've seen you do it, you seemed to like it that time, though I can't figure out why, that girl was certainly nothing special. But, enough said on her or any of your former dates for that matter. Moving on to…"

"No! Now wait a second!" John was stunned to have gotten a word in, and so was Sherlock, judging by the look on his face. John had to smile. "What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you like kissing?" John held his breath; Sherlock's answer seemed to be important somehow. Though not very satisfying.

"That's irrelevant," Sherlock deflected. "There's more on the list. Copulating and breeding and…"

"Not interested." John wasn't to be swayed that quickly. "At least not in breeding. The other thing… well, kissing comes before that, so it's rather relevant. It is relevant to me. Do. You. Like. Kissing?"

"I'm… of course. Who doesn't like it, I suppose?" Sherlock's eyes travelled to the window, the door, the carpet, anywhere but at John, in seconds and that's all it took for John to understand.

"Oh," John's eyes softened. "You've never… It doesn't… it's fine, Sherlock."

"Is it?" For one second a vulnerability was visible in Sherlock's eyes that John had never seen before. But then Sherlock schooled his features and went on, once again the picture of perfect composure: "Of course I'm aware that my lack of experience might alter your decision not in my favour. It might in fact put you off, but let me assure you…"

"Doesn't matter."

"… that I'm very willing to…. It doesn't?"

"No," John shook his head, once. He stood up in one swift move and slowly rounded the coffee table until he was standing right in front of Sherlock. "There was never a decision to make."

"Oh," Sherlock had been craning his neck to look at John but then his face suddenly fell and he slumped backwards till his back connected with the couch. "I see," he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

John stood there and quickly rolled his eyes in frustration. Of course, count on the genius to turn the gears in his head in the completely wrong direction.

"Sherlock," John bent down until he was at eye level. "Look at me, you stupid amazing genius!"

Sherlock turned away. "No need to mock me, John. I…"

"Oh, for God's sake," John took hold of Sherlock's face with both hands and seized it back. He placed a feather-light kiss onto the closed lips and quickly pulled back again. Sherlock stared up at him with wide-open grey eyes.

John didn't let go of Sherlock's face. He spoke very slowly, never losing eye contact: "There was never a decision for me to make, because, you idiot. How can you not know that, whatever you'll ask, my answer will always be yes? Do you honestly believe I could be here, with you, and somehow manage to not fall in love with you? Not possible. It was decided for me, a long time ago in a lab at Bart's. Nothing I can do about it."

"Would you want to?" Sherlock's voice was barely audible, guarded.

"God, no!" John closed the distance between them once again and this time his lips lingered on Sherlock's for a lot longer than before.

Sherlock may have never kissed anyone before but Lord knows, he was a fast learner. John had to steady himself with one hand on Sherlock's shoulder while the other roamed through the locks at the back of his head. And when that wasn't enough, he simply fell down beside Sherlock onto the couch. Sherlock's lips and hands and body followed John's every move and soon enough they were both sprawled on the couch, one half over the other, legs tangled, fingers intertwined and lips locked.

But eventually John had to come up for air and he half-heartedly shoved at Sherlock's chest. The detective obliged, rather reluctantly, and propped his head on one bent elbow. His other hand traced random patterns on John's chest.

John watched Sherlock's face in silence, watched the small incredulous smile slowly turn into a pleased one, and tried to come to terms with what had just happened.

"So," he stated eventually, "You look rather pleased with yourself. I take it then you do like kissing, don't you?"

"Obviously," Sherlock grinned back. "As I knew I would."

"Then why haven't you… I mean. I can't believe… you've never kissed anyone before? How is that even possible? You went to Uni."

"I didn't have a John then," Sherlock muttered more to himself.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Not important." Before John had a chance to reply Sherlock went on: "University wasn't… Remember what Sebastian said? I wasn't very well liked then. Not that I wanted to be," Sherlock shrugged but John could see, as clearly as he'd seen it months ago in Sebastian's office, that it had bothered Sherlock. He tried to think of something gentle to say but Sherlock beat him to it: "However, that wasn't what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

Sherlock's index finger slowly circled the first button on John's shirt and John could feel the heat creep through the fabric. "I meant I knew that I would like kissing you, John. Not somebody at Uni or wherever. Just you."

John trapped Sherlock's hand with his own and squeezed it gently. He was momentarily at a loss for words.

"So, you see, I was right."

John let out a short laugh. "I'm so glad you're such an impossible know-it-all."

"Hardly impossible."

"Improbable then. Incredible. Whatever. A know-it-all." He lifted his head and placed a tender kiss onto Sherlock's smiling lips.

"Speaking of," Sherlock pulled away with a smack and sat up straight. "There's this next point on that list of suggested activities that I have to admit I'm not quite sure I interpreted correctly."

"Oh," John, immediately feeling the loss of Sherlock's body heat, followed until he sat up facing Sherlock. "The next point? You mean the, ugh, the sex?"

"Sex isn't on the list, John," Sherlock smirked.

"What? Of course it is. It has to be. I mean," John cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed by his eager sounding voice. Could it be that sex simply wasn't something Sherlock would be interested in? That certainly would explain… "But…" John frowned, confused now. "You checked off everything on that list, didn't you? Well, not dancing but all the other stuff, so…"

"And by other stuff you're of course referring to…"

"Sex, Sherlock!"

"Copulating," Sherlock corrected. "Or breeding, come to think of it, since both could be seen as parts of the euphemism that is sex. Don't worry, John," Sherlock smirked. "We'll get to that later."

"We will?" John cringed inwardly. Why did his voice have to come out so squeaky? He wasn't the inexperienced one now, was he? "I mean, good. Fine. Whatever. Not that I'm eager or anything."

"Patience, John." Sherlock chided. "Let's clear something up first, shall we? The activity I'm not entirely clear on was the knot-tying."

"What about it?" Surely Sherlock wasn't asking what John thought he was asking, was he? No, that would be far too soon. They hadn't even had sex yet - though we'll get to that later, John's brain supplied, rather unhelpfully.

"Sherlock," John turned towards him, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "You're not… proposing, are you?"

"Proposing what exactly, John?"

"Oh, right." He shouldn't feel this down. He really shouldn't.

"You see, that's the point. How can I propose something that I don't know the meaning of?"

"Huh, what? Come again?" Now John wasn't so much down but downright confused. Sherlock didn't know the meaning of knot-tying? How could that be?

Sherlock began to elaborate: "I checked off that box not entirely sure about its meaning. I assumed knot-tying refers to entering a state of marriage or, in our case, the same-sex equivalent, so naturally I checked off the box on the list as one supposed activity I'd be willing to consider, eventually."

"Naturally?" John blinked, surprised. "Thinking about marriage? Sure, why not!"

"On the other hand, it could also refer to some sort of bedroom-bondage-play. But while I was still undecided about that when I filled out that form months ago I can safely say now that either way, I'd have that box checked. So, discussing this rather seems to be a moot point all of a sudden, isn't it?"

"Moot point? Huh, what?" John wasn't sure where exactly he'd lost Sherlock.

"Yes, John. Either way, I'd be willing to explore the knot-tying, whatever it entails, since I suddenly find myself rather curious about it. And then…"

"W-wait, what?" John's eyes budged. "You're curious about… bedroom-bondage… oh, sure. Why am I even surprised? Of course you'd be curious about it. You get off on murder and you hit dead bodies with a riding crop. You're the poster boy for all things BDSM."

"You think so?" Sherlock beamed at him and John had the strangest feeling, namely that Sherlock had taken this as a compliment. Oh, dear. What had he gotten himself into?

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><p>Some time later, after they'd thoroughly explored the kissing point some more, John had to leave for the bathroom and he realized on his way back downstairs that night had fallen somehow without them noticing. The living room was dark except for the glow that shone in from the light in the kitchen.<p>

The couch was empty and John, curious about the clatter he could hear from the kitchen, walked over to the open slide-doors.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock closed the fridge and turned around. "I'm trying to assess the exact time I'll have to start showing you my willingness to go through an extreme act in order to…"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Sherlock took a few steps towards John and shrugged. "I was trying to see when I'd have to start buying milk."

"Oh," John nodded, trying to remain serious and quickly failing. "That extreme act."

"Precisely."

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock." He closed the distance between them and took Sherlock's hands in his. "It's fine. We'll manage without you having to resort to such extreme measures."

"But I," Sherlock squeezed John's hands and fixed him with an intense stare. "John, I want you to know that I'm serious about this."

"About the milk?"

"About any of it. The milk, the bees, the suggested activities. All of it." His voice had gone impossibly deep and quiet. "Especially the last suggested activity."

"What's that again?" John had to talk around a sudden lump in his throat.

"Growing old," Sherlock whispered into his ear. "With you."

John seized Sherlock's head and kissed him deeply. He closed his arms around the taller man's back and pulled him in, not letting go.

Not wanting to ever let go again.

"I take it you're in it with me?" Sherlock mumbled some time later.

"All the way, Sherlock. You know I am."

"And the suggested activities?"

"Yes to every one of them."

Sherlock leaned back so that he was able to look at John. "Even the breeding?"

"Ugh, look…" John came up short.

"The bees, John," Sherlock smirked. "I was referring to breeding bees."

John laughed out loud. "Oh, thank God. I was afraid I'd have to have the talk with you."

"What talk?"

John pulled Sherlock into the living room and onto the couch. "You know, the talk about the birds and the bees."

"John, I don't see any birds in our imminent future, but I thought it rather obvious that we were indeed having a talk about bees."

"Not our bees," John saw Sherlock's eyes light up at that. He smiled back. "I meant… Sherlock, I meant. You know, the talk. Birds and bees. Breeding. Insert male key into female slot any you get a baby, male key into male slot… not so much."

"Oh, that talk," Sherlock leaned back against the cushions. "Don't worry, Mycroft beat you to it."

"Stop right there. I don't wanna know." John tried to imagine Mycroft Holmes having that talk with anybody and shuddered.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll spare you the boring details then. And believe me, they were boring."

"Really?"

"Yes, he… well, let's just say it's no wonder I was never really interested in sex." Sherlock pulled John close. "He made it sound so boring. And the few people that had gotten the weird notion into their heads to convince me otherwise… even more boring, so I made them quickly lose that weird notion."

"So you've never… well."

"As I said. Boring."

"Boring, huh?" John let his hand trail slowly down Sherlock's chest, then down his side until his finger reached the waistband of his trousers and the small sliver of skin where Sherlock's shirt had come loose. "Too boring to get the great Sherlock Holmes interested in sex? Really?"

John tucked the shirt free some more until his hand could fit under. He stroked the warm skin and felt Goosebumps rise immediately.

Sherlock took a sharp intake of breath and hissed: "Doesn't feel boring now."

John chuckled. "Should I take it as a compliment?"

"Take it any way you like, John."

That's exactly what John did.

And Sherlock knew that he'd never be bored again. Not with sex, and certainly not with John. Even if the knot-tying would turn out to simply mean marriage.

He could live with that. With John. Forever.

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><p><strong>The End<strong>


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